


The Mandalorians

by Write_By_Nite



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-08 00:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21467119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_By_Nite/pseuds/Write_By_Nite
Summary: 9 ABY - The Galactic Empire has fallen, with the last shreds of its loyalists clinging to nothing but a tattered banner. After the Great Purge, the Mandalorian powers have yet to be reunited, and many of the proud warriors find work as muscle-for-hire and bounty hunters.Our story focuses on two such warriors - one, a lone wolf, running and gunning for his own survival. The other, an outcast, slipping on the last few footholds in a lawless, unforgiving galaxy. Two lost souls, thrown together by money and ambition, kept together by honor and heart.Two Mandalorians. One tale of love, loss, and life amongst the stars.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	1. Beroya

**Author's Note:**

> Hi y'all! With the relatively fresh release of 'The Mandalorian', I'll be the first to admit: I've got veeeeery little info to work on! So, please forgive any mistakes that may become glaringly obvious in the future, and feel free to point them out so I might fix them. Anywho, thanks for reading - and enjoy!

**Beroya**

Ber•oy•a /bɛrɔɪjɔ/ (Mando'a)

'Bounty hunter'.

The Mandalorian shivered in the cold wind of Mygeeto. Despite the dense, gaseous current pooling around his feet, the warm exhaust fumes and offgasses did nothing to aid the chill clinging to his beskargam. His target wasn't there. He swore, a curse in Mando'a, then slung his blaster rifle back over his shoulder.

_His target_ _wasn't there_. His better intuition had told him that from the start, but he had stayed planetside at the urging of his client. For two weeks, he had staked out every square inch of the planet's capital, even bringing himself to restock his rations with tasteless Mygeetan food. He swore once more, and focused on picking out the last fibre of some organic material from between his teeth as he walked.

When he reached his ship, he sent a vidcomm request to the client, and sat down in the pilot's chair. With the flick of a switch, the rattling engines hummed into life. He checked the fuel dampeners, primed the warp accelerator, and as the core engaged, he cranked the throttle to liftoff. The ship was old; one could give it that. A relic of the Galactic Republic, its days of running and gunning were far from over. The Razor Crest broke atmosphere easily, as its pilot programmed the flight computer to chart a course for Ord Mantell.

His target was a man going by the name of 'Cosda'. Whether it was a first name, or a last, it was both unknown and irrelevant to the hunter. Cosda was a thief and muscle-for-hire wanderer who had managed to spark the ire of a prominent Chiss aristocrat by not only stealing approximately forty thousand credits, but by also pirating, crashing, and then ransacking the Chiss' prized personal cruiser for parts. The bounty on Cosda was immense, and the Mandalorian had jumped on it almost immediately. The aristocrat had cautioned him, however: he would be the tenth bounty hunter to be sent after him. The other nine had been found dead at one time or another in increasingly... creative, situations. 

A small part of the bounty hunter wondered where, or how, the target had learned the tactics required to take out everything from an IG unit to a squad of three Trandoshans. In particular, he was interested in Cosda's espionage techniques. The Chiss had expressed a sort of malevolent curiosity in finding out how the thief had made it into her base, past the guards, and then not only hacked the security system, but made off with a cruiser while the guards stood idly by. Apparently, none of that day's staff had reported seeing anything at all.

The monotonous hum of the engines was broken by the vidcomm console ringing it's alarm tone, and he set the ship on autopilot to take the call.

"Ah, my favourite Mando." The Chiss' face appeared in the holo, her face as insufferably smug as usual.

"Oraka." Mirco'arak'aome, or 'Oraka', as she preferred to be called, was a widely-known businesswoman and head of Mirco Industrial, a firm specializing in prefabricated space station modules. She also controlled a tightly-knit and absurdly expensive smuggling outfit, that gained notoriety for performing runs through Inner Rim Imperial blockades. For this, she was indeed dangerous, but the Mandalorian took a small comfort in the fact that she typically maintained her mask of calm confidence and wasn't at all prone to the various fits of temper his other clients had displayed. 

"Did you find that Cosda bastard on Mygeeto?"

"He wasn't there. I'd hazard a guess he's never even set foot on the planet before."

Oraka pursed her lips, and checked a screen outside of the holo's field of view. "I suppose not. My assistant will be notified of this mistake. Now, what is your new direction, then?"

"Ord Mantell."

"My ship had enough fuel in it to get to Mon Calamari, if pressed, and yet he crashed it. How are you so sure he's not still on Iridonia?"

"I ran into the remains of a linked shipping caravan. Whoever Cosda's pilot was, they caused a hell of a mess just past Myomar. After leaving Brentaal's orbit, he must have taken the Namadii up to the Celanon, then fell out of hyperspace when the two ships collided. He limped the ship to Iridonia, then must have jumped offworld when the caravan's muscle landed there. Mygeeto is too far for a Zabrak jumpship."

The Chiss made a face. "Zabraks, ugh. Savages. And they gave him a ship?"

"I'm assuming he stole it."

"Ah." She paused in conversation for a moment, reading something, and the Mandalorian watched as she typed a message and sent it off with a flick of her wrist. 

"Oh, I suppose I should inform you: I want him brought in dead."

"That's a switch."

She waved her hand dismissively, and set her expression sternly. "He's become far too tiresome for me to gain any joy from torturing him, and, I suppose it would make your job somewhat easier, yes?"

Silence.

"In any case, I expect him to be brought to Brentaal before the next month arrives. Am I clear?"

The Mandalorian nodded, and ended the transmission before disengaging the Razor Crest's autopilot. He had a long, tough hunt ahead of him, and after a moment of thought, he flipped the autopilot back on again, and leaned back in the pilot's chair. Mygeeto had been tiring, full of long nights and frigid days, and he found himself drifting off to sleep as the ship rumbled its way towards a hyperspace lane. He had half an idea to move to his bunk, but sleep wound up irresistible, and the chair was comfy enough, anyways.

* * *

Dreams rarely came to the Mandalorian.

_A woman screams his name. He can't remember what it is._

But when they did -

_He can't move. He can hear the clank of their feet, the hiss of a flamethrower._

They came as nightmares.

_Fire, it's on fire, it's too hot, he can't stand it, but he can only watch - t__he flames morph into vines, hanging from trees taller than Coruscanti skyscrapers. _ _The jungle is silent, save for the crunch of his group's boots amongst the undergrowth. _ _She's leading point, rifle in hand, helmet dappled in the light streaming through the canopy, and he can imagine her hair, unwound from its braid, tumbling down her neck, softer than anything he'd ever loved before. He knows what happens, he wants to scream, wants to tell the group to turn back, but he trips and falls into the nest, and he watches her fall with him, and land on the rocks, and he sees her legs and arms go limp, and she screams, "Help me, please, help me!" and he does nothing. _

_She dies screaming, and he is the creature tearing at her armor, ripping off the beskar helmet and relishing in her screams. He hears himself scream, and the scar on his shoulder blade burns like her remains on the pyre, and the gazes of her family burn just as badly as he mumbles the funeral rites, fighting against his grief to keep it within - it didn't matter if nobody could have seen the tears inside his helmet. The shame would still be there. It is there._

_He runs from it. He runs down a hallway, but hands catch him, hold him by his armor,he has to rip it off - bit by bit, the beskar falls, the full suit hitting the floor piece by piece, until only a pauldron is left. He is backed into a dead end, and he scrambles for the knife at his hip. It's gone missing, and he can do nothing but turn his shoulder to it and hope its teeth bounce off of the beskar. _

_It laughs. After all, what good is beskar if you haven't earned it? A blank signet patch flutters to his feet, and bursts into flame, as the armor he had dropped melts with the approaching inferno. It engulfs him, and he feels the heat against his skin, the same heat from all those years ago, the heat that took his village, his parents, it took everything, and now it would take him as well._

He woke up screaming, in a chilled sweat. Suddenly, his helmet felt stifling, and he ripped it off, the steel ringing against the floor as it bounced. He gripped the center console, and slumped against his chair, collecting himself. He breathed, the scar on his shoulder aching dully. When he finally raised his head, he picked his helmet off of the floor, and settled his hands on the controls of the Crest. There was a job to be done, and he'd be damned if he didn't finish it. With the flick of a switch, he made the jump to hyperspace, leaving the sector and the nightmare it cradled behind him.


	2. Aruetii

**Aruetii**

Ar•u•e•tii \ʌruɛti\ (Mando'a)

'Outsider', or 'traitor', if used obscenely.

Vaero's eyes cracked open at dawn precisely, when the first Mantellian merchant began hawking his wares via loudspeaker. He buried himself deeper in bed, but it was to no avail. He was up, and there would be no laying back down until the end of his day. Seraan, the other occupant of the bed, rolled over in his sleep, his face twitching slightly; he must have been dreaming. Vaero got dressed, and slung his blaster back into its holster. His knife took a few seconds longer to find; old habits die hard, and he slipped his hand under the pillows to retrieve it, careful not to jostle Seraan.

The room's partition rolled back as Vaero made his way to the little kitchenette, tucked away in the far corner of the room. Cracking open a fresh box of tarine, he breathed in the rich smell for a blissful moment, then set the hotplate to 'boil'. Taking another canister of water, he rehydrated a packet of portion bread, and as the kettle began to whistle, added the dry tarine to the boiled water. Vaero considered the tea leaves a luxury, but Seraan had insisted on it - besides, Vaero owed him one, after that fiasco with the caravan past Myomar.

Seraan Veladi had been Vaero's associate for close to four years: they had first met on Coruscant, where both had worked a robbery job that had quickly gone south. In the end, Vaero could depend on him, and the decision of trusting Seraan was one of the few choices he had never regretted making.

"I don't know why you insist on eating that ridiculous bantha bread." Vaero could see him out of the corner of his eye, draped against the side of the partition.

"And I still don't know why you insist on stealing my clothes." With a grin, Seraan flicked the tail of Vaero's scarf back over his shoulder, and sat down to pour himself a cup of tarine. 

"I think it looks better on me."

With an incredulous look, Vaero paused and turned to face him. "_You're blind._" 

Seraan choked on his tea, and laughed before pulling a face of mock concern. "This _is _the tan one, yes?"

A sigh and a smile followed, and one could imagine that the scene looked quite picturesque; two friends and lovers, in a sunlit room, enjoying a quiet breakfast together. But, the scene said nothing of the rifles leaned up against the wall, or the military-grade demolition equipment tucked inside a crate. Coincidentally, the scene was also devoid of any explanation towards just how the pair came to be in a small, hole-in-the-wall apartment, overlooking the grand bazaar of Ord Mantell's capital. 

* * *

Brentaal IV's nights were calm, the moonlight cascading to the ground given a slight violet tinge from the Ringali Nebula, glittering high above. Vaero could smell the salty air of the coastline - even through the aftermarket filters of his helmet - and hear the clunk and rattle of Seraan loading his rifle. The two assassin droids lay in heaps behind them, their comms and cloaking mechanisms carefully torn out and rewired to Vaero and Seraan's hardware. The droids had been caught unawares on their patrol, and the blaster holes burnt through their heads and wiring columns held testament to the painstaking precision and pride Vaero took in his work.

"Ready to go?" Seraan locked the rifle's safety, and stood up from the log he was working at.

With a noise of agreement, Vaero kicked the last chunk of droid farther into the brush, and switched off the illuminator on his helmet. 

Their target, Mirco Industrial's most prestigious warehouse compound, was humming with activity. Workers of multiple species hauled goods to and fro, and ships came and went in every direction. However, Vaeros' macrobinoculars revealed that the bulk of the ships were neither Imperial nor Mirco; rather, they had the individual symbols of the pilot or crew, if they had any markers at all. This came as no surprise. Oraka Mirco, the head of Mirco Industrial, had her talons gripped around half the spice routes in the Mid Rim, and the compound was also known as a distribution centre for her more... Exotic goods. 

"The boxes are still there." Seraan frowned in concentration. "Only one guard is posted within range, and I'm sure I could easily take him out."

"Hide him in the brush afterwards?" 

"What else?" 

Without another word, the two dropped down the ridge, and dropped low as they crept past the treeline. The energy fence surrounding the compound hissed and crackled as they approached with the desynchronization boxes. Setting them up took little to no time at all, and despite the fence spitting and snapping, an opening was quickly produced, and Vaero slipped through. Next came Seraan, with the second desync box tucked under his arm. That one would be used to override their getaway ship's security systems. They had already chosen the proper ship for the job: a small, slowly rusting Imperial junker, haphazardly parked in a dusty storage zone behind one of the smaller warehouses.

The lone guard was leaning against his rifle, his breathing slow and sleepy. Vaero aimed his gauntlet and fired,the cable whipping through the air until it lodged itself firmly in the guard's thick neck. With a yank, Vaero hauled the cable backwards and dropped his knee onto the guard's throat. A crunch came from his windpipe, then the poor sod lay silent. After the guard was dumped into a bin labelled 'compactor', the pair of thieves engaged the stolen cloaking fields and carried on through the maze of warehouses.

His surroundings put Vaero on edge: the warehouses possessed high, smooth walls, devoid of any pipes or hiding places. Above his head, he could make out a now-defunct shielding lattice, left over from the area's days of Imperial occupation; there were too many places for freshly installed security systems to appear, or well-hidden guards to fire a rifle bolt through his skull. Strangely, however, Vaero saw none of his anxiety in Seraan. The Miraluka walked with confidence, despite his lack of sight. 'The Force guides me,' he had said, with great surety. Vaero only hoped that the Force would take pity on the two of them, and guide them past any obstacles the compound would inevitably present.

"The door's already open. What should we do-"

Serran was pulled to the side by Vaero just as a squad of both droids and beings marched past, armed to the teeth. The last of the group, a skinny-looking Nautolan, looked back towards Serran and Vaero's hiding spot. The Nautolan stepped closer, black eyes opened wide to find any trace of an intruder. Seraan held his breath as the guard walked even closer; so close, in fact, Vaero could hear the air whistling in and out of his gills.

A sharp word from the squad's leader pulled the Nautolan away, and Vaero relaxed somewhat as Seraan leaned against him. "These bastards are far too good at their jobs," Seraan muttered, unlatching the safety on his rifle.

"The cache is three warehouses ahead, we'll make it." Vaero, too, pulled his blaster from its holster, holding it in a firm single-handed grip within the range of the cloaking field.

Importing unrefined Outer Rim spice was an expensive business; thus, the profits gained after breaching the Core markets were immense. Credits fell like rain into Oraka Mirco's lap; thousands of them, every day, from every corner of the galaxy. However, many of her... socially discreet clients paid for their goods in physical credits, rather than chits or electronic transfer. The shipments of such cleanly transferable funds came in bundles of a thousand each. A cache of forty thousand had been delivered to Brentaal IV approximately five hours before the infiltration, deposited in warehouse 23-19. Two days later, it would be due for transfer to Mirco Industrial's banking partners on Muunilist; a small part of Vaero took a certain smugness from the idea that the snobbish bankers of the InterGalactic would never lay their hands on a single credit of it.

And so, there lay the target. As Seraan ran his hands over the mag-locks of the door, Vaero kept watch with his blaster held at the ready. Given his expert touch, Seraan had the door open in less than two minutes, and they both slipped through, neatly closing the door behind them. The stacks of cleanly packaged credits glimmered in the dim moonlight, then veritably sparkled when Vaero switched on his headlamp. Four stacks, with ten bundles each, lay on a hovercart tucked against a bare wall.

"It's all there?" Vaero took his place as watchman, and set his helmet down on a barrel, the light aimed towards Seraan and the cache.

Quickly sorting through the bundles, Seraan nodded, then then froze. "Someone's in here."

Vaero grabbed his helmet, and dropped behind a shipping crate. Outside, the wind had picked up, with the moonlight pouring through the warehouse's roof dimming, and periodically disappearing altogether behind the encroaching clouds. 

"Where?"

"Ten feet back. Unarmed, carrying something... bricks of metal, I think."

Vaero growled, and loaded an electrical round into his rifle. "I got it." Rising from his hiding place, but still staying low, he followed the smooth metal of the wall before laying eyes on the interloper. A human male, old and weak, struggling to carry a heavily secured camtono in his arms. 

"Freeze." His voice low and threatening, Vaero stood to his full height, the dot of his rifle scope planted on the man's forehead.

"Wait a moment. Please. Let me put this down, friend." Vaero said nothing as the man stooped to place the camtono on the concrete floor. "I see you are Mandalorian, aren't you?" He took a step into the moonlight, and Vaero noticed the milky grey cataracts of a blind man.

"You can't see hand in front of face, much less me."

The old man chuckled. "Ah, I don't need to see you to recognize an old friend, Cosda; finally come back for that drink with old Barent, eh?"

A chill ran down Vaero's spine. This man had known his father. 

Leisurely, Barent sat down on a crate. "How's that flame of yours; you know, that Damaarn girl, Ibare?"

"She's... she's fine." His mother was dead, declared missing in action by Tiber Saxon.

"Good, good. Say, there's a patrol of guards that ought to be rolling by soon. Take these, I think they're for a junker outside." Barent tossed a set of security keys at Vaero, and smiled a toothless grin. 

"And what are you going to do?" The keys were elaborate and expensive... Definitely not the junker's.

"I suppose I'll be setting my cargo down," he gestured to the container at his feet, "and going back to the delivery station in the city." 

Vaero grunted in agreement, nodded, and turned to leave.

"Ret'urcye mhi, ori'vod." May we meet again, old friend.

_'Projor oya ret,' _Vaero thought.

In your next life, perhaps.


	3. Mar'eyir

**Mar'eyir**

Mar'•ey•ir /mɑr:eɪjɪə/ (Mando'a)

'To find', 'to discover'.

The security keys felt like lead weights in Vaero's hand; as his macrobinoculars focused in on on the ship they had been stolen from, he felt an anxiety that the loss had been noticed. 

She was no junker; if anything, a personal corvette cruiser, worthy of a Coruscanti noble. Everything from the engines to the loading ramp was meticulously polished and primed, and the ship itself was parked in the middle of the compound's airstrip, virtually surrounded by Mirco staff. 

_"That's _the ship?" Seraan said, his face staring in the direction of the landing pad. 

"Mm-hm." Vaero zoomed in on the lettering, painstakingly laid onto the hull. 'The Csillan Wind.' Fitting, he supposed.

"How do you propose, then," Seraan paused to check on the hovercart parked below them, "that we get into that?"

Scanning the area around the _Wind_, Vaero switched the sensors in his helmet to a thermal pickup, and resumed his sweep of the pad. The ship's engines were cold, and any footprints leading up and into the ship were long faded. Excellent, Cosda would have said. 

Vaero's father, Cosda Kyrec, was a master strategist; all Kyrecs were, ever since their founder Morana, nearly three hundred years ago. Every day of Vaero's childhood began in a lesson. Either his mother's combat, or his father's strategies composed his mornings, until the day he turned eighteen and was turned out into the world as a fully-fledged Kyrec. And now, the teachings came back to him in a rush. 

* * *

A dry, rocky planet; on the surface, a deciduous oasis. There, the burble of a geothermal pool, and two Mandalorians fifteen feet up a coniferous tree. 

"Boy, when you see the empty home of your flown enemy," Cosda had said, gesturing to the stinking den of some local carnivore, "never assume they have left it unguarded. Instead, treat it as an enemy in its own right, and be wary." 

* * *

Vaero's eyes, trained and wary indeed, began a redoubled search.

There: a foxhole. he had spotted a shipping container, slightly taller than a man, and twice as wide. With simply undone physical, rather than electromag, locks on either end, it would provide both a smooth entry and a swift exit for Vaero, Seraan, and the hovercart. 

"There's a shipping crate, little ways back from the ship. See it?"

Seraan hummed in agreement. "I've got the cart."

"Good. I'll cover."

Hugging the fence around the _Wind's _pad, Vaero and Seraan crept past the multiple guards walking their patrol, then paused, tucked within a shadowy corner, to let the suspicious Nautolan from before pass. Luckily, he marched past without incident, and the pair ducked behind their crate of choice. The locking mechanism sounded a clunk as it gave beneath Vaero's hand, and he slid the door open as silently as possible.

Waving Seraan inside, Vaero did one final check for any intrusive bystanders, then shut the door.

Seraan grunted in the dark, struggling to orient the cart properly in the tight space of the crate. The darkness of the crate presented no obstacles, however, and he soon leaned back against the wall of their temporary hideaway.

"The things you do to get me alone. Good grief, man, you could have just asked!" His tone was light, and playful enough to put Vaero's mind at ease.

"You're a terrible flirt, you know that?"

Vaero could hear the huff of a smile, and held the pleasant image of Seraan's face in his head.

"I take what I can get." Seraan's words betrayed the one-eighty shift of his mood, and Vaero felt the impact of the switch almost immediately.

He popped the seal of his helmet, and tucked it under the crook of his off-hand's arm. "This will be the last we'll ever need; we'll retire somewhere, on Felucia or Naboo or something like that. Trust me."

Somewhat bitterly, Seraan nodded, then swiftly changed the subject as he turned away from Vaero. "The coast is clear, let's move."

* * *

Vaero replayed the scenes over and over in his head as he rewired his helmet for the fourth time that day. Even before the heist, there had been sharp shifts in Seraan's moods - they came harshly, and even brought about fights every so often. At first, Vaero had thought he was just losing his edge, but... Something told him otherwise. Some sort of intuition, he supposed, or just the rudimentary social skills he did possess overworking themselves. Seraan sat across from him, cross-legged and hunched over the intel board of the _Wind_, picking through the pieces and wiring them to a projection cube on the floor in front of him. With a crackle, the cube jumped to life, and a holographic map of the Outer Rim exploded into life above it. 

Seraan sat back with a smug look of satisfaction. "I told you I would get it." 

"I never doubted. What is that?" Vaero moved from his spot on the apartment's couch to the floor, orienting himself perpendicular to the cube.

"A map, obviously. But..." Seraan gestured to a clump of white dots, all packed together on a planet, labelled 'Navarro'. "These are people."

Reaching through the hologram, Vaero zoomed into the planet, then selected one of the many dots. A new hologram appeared, coming from the side of the cube, rather than the top; it showed the mugshot of a bounty hunter- a kubaz, by the look of it. Below the image, Vaero assumed there would have been a date of hiring, or perhaps a reward amount; as there was nothing, he assumed there must have been some minor data corruption from the ship's crash. He went one step back, to the planet, and made short work of sifting through the rest of the dots. 

Bounty hunter after bounty hunter flashed across Vaero's vision. There were dozens of them, he guessed, all on the same planet, all in the same region of the planet, even. Each one's hologram contained the data corruption, until - 

"Paid in... Beskar?" 

"Hm? They're being paid in armor?" Seraan raised his head from his chest, and blearily massaged his temples as he began to regain attention towards the matter at hand.

"No. Bricks, that must have been melted down."

"Oh."

"No Mandalorian would give away beskar so carelessly." Something ached in Vaero's chest -- something angry, something that made his hands twitch into a fist as his mind produced a conclusion. "Imperials."

"You think it's still from the Saxons' rulings?"

"I don't know." 

"I thought you kept tabs on those people?"

"Not... Not since I left."

"Since you left?"

"I don't want to talk about it." Evidently, this was the wrong thing to say. Seraan's brow creased, and Vaero could feel the tension beginning to itch at the room's atmosphere.

A heavy silence followed. Pasts had always been a touchy subject between the two, and even now, tension was gaining ground. In Vaero's eyes, Seraan maintained secrets like he did his own beskar: acute attention to a conversation's direction had kept the entirety of Seraan's past under lock and key, so to speak. Despite this, Vaero usually didn't blame him. Every so often, something would show itself underneath the grinning mask Seraan wore, and it would send a chill down Vaero's spine without fail. And whenever Vaero tried to shed light on the issue, there was a fight. 

And today, it lasted an hour and a half. 

* * *

In a seedy bar, five or six blocks away from the apartment, Vaero sat, doing what mercenaries do best: drinking, brooding, and waiting for the next job to take them off a godforsaken planet. The swill in his cup wasn't nearly potent enough to give him a buzz, much less the desired memory loss he was drinking for, and he felt his mood souring by the minute. 

The bar itself was staffed by a somewhat stunted Besalisk, and a few domestic droids wandered around the tables, dispensing drinks as their servos hissed and clanked. A low hum of half-drunken conversation permeated the place, and most of the patrons appeared to be regulars. The door opened fairly regularly, letting in a hiss of warm, stinking air each time. 

One of the aforementioned breezes wafted over Vaero's cup, and he raised his gaze from the sticky table to look towards the newcomer.

The low hum stopped, and the hairs on the back of Vaero's neck rose. In the doorway, unmistakably armoured and armed to the teeth, stood a Mandalorian.


End file.
